


In the Meantime

by angelwing



Category: Victor Frankenstein (2015)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:33:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5408303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelwing/pseuds/angelwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Victor found Finnegan among the debris and destruction that his creation had caused, terribly injured but not quite dead yet, he jumped at the opportunity to save at least one life that day.</p><p>Finnegan is very much still alive and wants nothing more than to return to the life of luxury that he grew up with. But he's terribly injured and far from home, and his wounds must heal before he can even think about leaving Victor's side. In the meantime the two are stuck together, and Finnegan is more unhappy than he's ever been in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Meantime

“It _hurts_ ,”

“Yes, I suspect it does.”

“Well, do something about it.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, given our current situation and limited supplies.” Victor looked up from his notebook. He was sitting in the corner, back to the wall, and across from him, sitting on the bed and looking like an absolute mess, was Finnegan. “Frankly, I think you should just be grateful that you’re still in one piece. Igor was always much better at emergency operations than I, if that fall had been any worse I don’t think you would be here to whine right now.”

Finnegan was successfully disturbed by this, enough so that he went silent for a moment, looking away with a scowl on his face. Truth be told, although he would not easily be able to unlearn the snotty and egotistical attitude an elite, privileged upbringing had caused him to develop, he certainly was looking less and less like a member of the third richest family in England as the days went by. Scars from his injuries aside, his hair was an unkempt mess of golden tangles and his clothes were that of a _commoner’s_ \- a Scottish commoner’s, specifically, as he and Victor had been eager to stop at the first sign of civilization they could find, and they were in Scotland after all.

They were currently still in said “first sign of civilization.” A small Scottish village not too particularly far away from Finnegan’s castle. Here they stayed in a small inn, largely empty save for the two of them and incredibly run down. It was not much worse for wear than Victor’s old home, but to Finnegan it had been an absolute nightmare from the moment he had seen the interior of the room - Dark, empty and yet somehow too cramped for personal space to be possible, dust lining the dresser, bedsheets stiff and cold…

“We need to get back to England,” Finnegan muttered now, a hint of desperation in his voice as his eyes darted about the stuffy room, still put off by Victor’s reminder of how near he had come to death. “I- I have money there, you know. We won’t be living like this anymore. And a… a bed that can actually be used for it’s intended purpose.” He pressed a hand down on the mattress and grimaced.

Victor looked up again from his notes and shook his head. “Ungrateful,” he said in a vaguely singsong tone, causing Finnegan to briefly wrinkle his nose in irritation and scoff softly. Seemingly taking pity on the poor, out of place aristocrat, Victor added, “Once you’ve healed up you’re welcome to head back on your own, but I’m afraid I won’t be joining you. I’d rather not return to England for the time being.”

Finnegan huffed and came damn close to making a snide remark about how Victor clearly just did not have the guts to show his face after such a disastrous failure had taken place in the castle. But he decided against this, for despite the fact that he knew he would take brief but satisfying pleasure from insulting the other man as much as possible, he also knew that Victor not only was responsible for saving his life, but held the key to keeping him alive in his hands. So instead he simply sighed and asked, “Can I not just leave now?”

Victor did not look up from his notebook, but he began to laugh as he jotted something down. “If you wish for death, by all means, go ahead.” He shrugged. “I doubt you’ll find any doctors around here who know a thing about how to tend to crushed ribs, bone splinters, internal bleeding… There’s also the great inconvenience of a broken shoulder and hip. In fact, I’ll be stunned if you found a single doctor anywhere who could have helped you like I did.” And then, with a faint air of cockyness that even Finnegan could not help but admit was well deserved, he finally looked up at the blonde man to say, “Even if you had died, or your injuries end up being fatal enough to kill you now, I could bring you back. If you want to leave feel free, but you’ll be leaving behind the only person who can guarantee the continuation of your life.”

Finnegan responded with an irritable huff. He lay back, and rather than sinking into the mattress like he would have on any proper bed, he felt his back hit the hard mattress and stay pressed flat against it. He felt like he was lying on a rock. After a moment of trying to adjust to this and failing miserably, he said with an edge of panic in his voice, “I can’t live like this, Frankenstein, I can’t.”

“Just Victor is fine,” Victor corrected calmly. He let out a long sigh, clearly a bit upset that he was being so distracted with whatever work he was doing, and stood up and walked over to Finnegan, then sat down beside him on the bed and eyed him for a moment. Finnegan did not move, but looked away stubbornly. “Is there anything I can do that will get you to shut up?” Finnegan briefly looked up at the question, surprised that despite the harsh words, his tone was almost light and teasing.

“Everything hurts.” Finnegan muttered.

Victor nodded. “I’ve already made it clear that that’s no surprise to me. You’re hurt badly, only a fool could deny that.” In a stunning display of lack of personal boundaries, Victor leaned closer to Finnegan then and gently lifted his shirt up, pulling it up in an attempt to reveal his belly and chest.

Finnegan gasped and sat up instantly. “What the hell?!” He swatted Victor’s hands away, and there was a faint redness in his cheeks that he would undoubtedly deny if was ever pointed out.

Victor rolled his eyes. “Calm down, Finnegan, I’m just checking the main area of injury. No need to get so… flustered.” The choice of words clearly offended (or, rather, continued to fluster) Finnegan, but he said nothing, instead going very rigid and looking very embarrassed as he grudgingly allowed the other man to lift his shirt now and inspect the area beneath. A large bruise, dark and blue and brown and looking incredibly painful, stretched out across his upper stomach and chest. On the side of his stomach was a crudely-stitched cut, and when Victor gently prodded it Finnegan hissed and flinched. “I think the biggest concern is infection,” Victor said casually. He ran his hand over Finnegan’s chest, gently enough that he did not put any pressure on the bruise, and Finnegan shivered, heat rising in his cheeks again.

“G- Gentle,” Finnegan hissed, feeling very exposed and still hurting quite a bit. Victor’s prodding and poking was not helping.

“I’m trying, just hold still.” Victor said, and there was a sort of dismissiveness to his tone that made Finnegan uneasy. Victor ran his fingers across the stitched up cut again. He had done those stitches himself, and while he did not like to be crude or messy with his work, he had been in a rush as by the time he had gotten around to helping Finnegan the blond man had been close to dead. “How’s your shoulder feeling?”

“Hurting,” Finnegan said, and there was a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “Everything is hurting, Fran- Vict- Ah!” He gasped when Victor now pressed down on his ribs, fingers digging into sensitive, bruised flesh and against the bones, and the pain of it elicited a whimper. “Shit, what the fuck?” he gasped, breathless from pain.

When Victor lowered Finnegan’s shirt and withdrew his hand, Finnegan let out a gasp of relief and collapsed back onto the bed. Victor watched him for a moment, Finnegan’s face was still tinted pink and he was trembling slightly. “You really have never dealt with discomfort in your life, have you?” Victor said. He shook his head and stood back up, and walked over to where he had left his notebook. “You’ll be fine, Finnegan. Rest up and you should be able to travel back to England on your own in just a few weeks.”

xxx

It was late. Finnegan was laying on the bed and trying his very hardest to sleep. Once his hip was better they could leave the town, Victor had promised, but Finnegan was not sure how long that would be, and he had no clue where they would go from here. They did not have much money with them, Victor had dragged him from the castle in a hurry, and even with the very minimal amount they were spending to get by at the moment he did not suspect their supply would last them very long.

And while this bed, Finnegan thought as he turned over onto his good shoulder, was utter hell, at least it _was_ a bed.

Speaking of which, Victor was currently asleep on the ground beside the bed. Finnegan had insisted he get the bed to himself, and in a display of tactless desperation had used his injuries as an excuse, claiming that he did not feel right being so close to another person when his wounds were so terrible. He could be pushed off the bed, or be crushed! he had insisted.

Finnegan forced his eyes shut, trying not to think about Victor, or the terrible inn, or the terrible pain he was experiencing, or the fact that he had no clear vision of the future. He had to sleep, he told himself, had to find a way to let all of his worries and concerns go and drift off-

“Henry!”

Victor’s voice broke through the silence and made Finnegan jump in surprise, which hurt just a bit. He groaned and sat up, looking around, trying to figure out what had caused such an outburst. Victor sat up too now and rubbed his back - sleeping on the floor was the very definition of torture, thought Finnegan almost sympathetically - before looking around sleepily and turning around to look at Finnegan, who was staring at him with wide eyes.

“S- Sorry, I-” Victor was clearly shaken. It occurred to Finnegan now that the other man must have had a nightmare. “Mm, just… a dream… is all. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

Awkwardly, Finnegan wet his lips and said, “No, um, I wasn’t sleeping.” He pressed his hand down against the hopelessly hard mattress and let out a soft sigh.

Finnegan had not expected Victor to make a deal of this. He turned once more to look at Finnegan with confusion, eyeing him for a moment. Even in the dark, so that Finnegan could not easily read Victor’s expression or see his eyes, he felt very exposed to Victor, felt like Victor was summing up every inch of his body like a doctor would, checking for any sort of flaw or error. And he had quite a few flaws and errors right now, at least physically. Finnegan felt the cut on his side sting.

Then, Victor said, “You don’t _look_ like an insomniac.”

“What? I’m not. I mean, I’ve never-” Finnegan shook his head and went silent, and instead of trying to defend himself he ended up simply saying, “No, this place is just shit.”

Victor chuckled grimly at that. “Sleep is a necessity for recovery, Finnegan. Your body needs it.” He crawled a few inches away and sat up once more with his back pressed to the wall. Above him was a small window that Finnegan took a moment to look out of. It was a cloudy, windy night, and he had no idea what time it was as there was no clock in the room. When Victor realized that Finnegan was not immediately heeding his advice, he let out a little sigh and added with just a hint of sarcasm, “Can I do anything to _help you_ , Finnegan?”

Finnegan did not respond. He looked away stubbornly, eyes resting on the mattress. He needed help, but he did not want to come across as childish. He did not want to look like he was pathetic or weak. He had been Victor’s benefactor until now, the sole reason Victor had been able to do his work, and ulterior motives or not Victor had certainly looked up to him then, seen him as a higher being with godlike powers and wealth beyond Victor’s wildest dreams, that he was merciful enough to bestow a sum of upon him. Finnegan had liked that, the superiority, the power. And now he was sitting up in bed, trembling in agony and unable to sleep, and Victor was asking if he needed help.

Very softly, Finnegan mumbled, “I just want everything to stop hurting,”

Victor, to Finnegan’s surprise and mild offense, chuckled softly at that. He stood up and walked over to the bed, and Finnegan watched as he sat down beside him. His added weight caused the mattress of the bed to sink in just a bit, but not much. He looked over at Finnegan and eyed him up and down again. “I believe I’ve told you a number of times now there isn’t much I can do about that.”

Finnegan nodded and swallowed, eyes returning to where they had rested before, unable to bring himself to look at Victor in a mixture of rebellion and embarrassment. “You could have left me to die.” he said quietly, although there was a sort of bitterness in his tone. His words were so soft that he was unsure if Victor had been able to hear them.

Victor had. “I had already caused enough death for a single day.” he said simply. “When I saw you were still breathing, I saw an opportunity to lower my death count by at least one, and I took it.” Then he gently nudged Finnegan, careful not to touch any part of him that was seriously injured, and said, “You would think that the man sponsoring me to create life would care a bit more about his own.”

“Well considering all of my hopes and goals were put into that monster, and all of my money is a billion miles away, I don’t see why I should.” Finnegan replied, and although he was clearly trying to sound snippy, there was a sort of resigned despair in his voice. Then he let out a little laugh, and his voice cracked as he did. He shook his head and gripped down on the bed now, nails digging into the sheet. “God, you shouldn’t have kept me alive, you’re such a fucking idiot.” He sniffed and furiously blinked away tears.

There was a moment of silence. Then, with a hint of hesitation, Victor asked, “Are you… crying?” He sounded more curious, perhaps even surprised, than anything else.

Finnegan huffed and looked away. Having too much pride to reach up and wipe his tears away, he felt them run down his cheeks and drip from his chin. He prayed that in the darkness Victor could not see.

Victor shifted just a bit closer. “Finnegan, I wouldn’t take you of all people as the type to start _crying_ over-”

“It just hurts, shut up.” Finnegan snapped, but his voice was still weak and a bit hoarse now. “Everything hurts.” He sniffled again. He had been intentionally ornery before, wanting to argue with Victor as he was too stubborn to cooperate with the likes of him, but there had been truth to his words: With the pain he was in now, not to mention the entirety of the dreadful situation, he really was beginning to wonder why being alive was in any way better than being dead.

Victor let out a soft “tsk” sound and shook his head. He reached out and tugged on the sleeve of Finnegan’s shirt. “Come here,” he ordered. He tugged on his sleeve again. “I want to m-”

Victor was unable to finish his sentence out of sheer surprise, for a moment later Finnegan had collapsed against him, burying his face into Victor’s chest and gripping tightly to his shirt. Victor stared with wide eyes, trying to calculate and process and understand Finnegan’s reasoning behind this, but truthfully Finnegan was not sure he himself knew. He was trembling against Victor, forehead pressed to him, and he sniffed and blinked away tears, still too stubborn to cry even as he clung to Victor like a baby.

“I- I had wanted to… make sure your wounds were… okay…” Victor’s words grew softer as he spoke until the final few sounds had died down to nothing but a very quiet murmur, seemingly stunned to silence by Finnegan’s incomprehensible actions. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Are you alright, Finnegan?”

Finnegan shook his head tersely, but did not move or say another word. He just wanted to stop hurting. He wanted to feel certain about his future. He wanted his money and his home and the comfort of his own damn bed. He wanted anything but Victor right now, but here he was, crying into his chest, clinging to him like his life depended on it. Very, very softly, he mumbled, “I’m just tired.”

Victor let out a thoughtful breath and continued to watch Finnegan, still waiting for a better explanation. When he realized he would not be getting one, he instead said, “Well, if you’re not going to explain yourself or show any sign of letting go of me, can you at least allow me to stay on the bed rather than go back to the floor? I dare say I deserve it, after-”

“Yes, yes, fine, whatever.” Finnegan interrupted quickly, not wanting to hear Victor’s voice right now, not wanting to think about who he was with despite the incredible closeness. Victor smelled like the ground, like dirt and grass, and the fabric of his shirt felt soft beneath Finnegan’s fingers as he gripped to it.

He liked it a bit. Victor’s smell, the touch of Victor’s fabric. Maybe he was just desperate for some form of closeness, for some familiarity and safety in this hellhole, but Finnegan found himself oddly comforted by it all. He felt what almost, _almost_ felt like guilt seep through his ego for cutting Victor off just now. Quietly, Finnegan assured him, “You can sleep on the bed.” He almost even wanted him to…

Victor let out a sound that resembled a chuckle, but he seemed confused. He was silent for a moment longer, and Finnegan wondered what he was thinking, but he did not want to ask. Short answers did not happen often with Victor, and Finnegan did not have the energy to tolerate Victor talking a lot right now. He just wanted to be close to him.

Finnegan suddenly felt a hand touch his shoulder and rest on it. That was the shoulder that was hurt… He tensed briefly at the feeling, irrationally scared that Victor was going to hurt him even more, but relaxed again as the hand began to gently rub his back. He looked up, briefly glancing at Victor’s face, and was relieved when their eyes did not meet. Victor continued to rub his back, and compared to the amount of pain the rest of his body was in, Finnegan thought the feeling of the other man’s hand rubbing gently against his sore back and shoulders (and being particularly careful with the one that was broken) was the most wonderful feeling imaginable. He closed his eyes again and let himself relax into Victor, burying his face in his chest once more and sniffling a few times as he began to calm.

“You really should try to sleep, Finnegan,” Victor was saying now, but Finnegan hardly processed the words, was barely even paying attention to them. “The sooner you’ve healed up a bit the sooner we can be on our way. This may come as a surprise to you, but I don’t particularly like our current living conditions either.”

Finnegan gave a sleepy nod, too tired and overwhelmed to fully comprehend what Victor had said but having caught the gist. He should sleep… “I want to go home,” he mumbled, words muffled against Victor.

“I’m aware,” Victor said, and Finnegan was certain he heard pity in his tone. “But even if I’m, ah, more medically advanced than you, I believe you’re just as aware as I am that you can’t safely do that yet.” Finnegan sniffled again, refusing to cry but feeling the urge returning. “For now… sleep.”

There was a long silence after that, but it was not particularly uncomfortable. Finnegan almost felt okay here, his back being rubbed as he clung to the other man and buried his face against him. It was far from ideal, he knew that, but there was some sort of comfort to it that helped him begin to relax. He really was tired, and he was starting to drift off right here, in Victor’s arms.

Much to Finnegan’s dismay, however, just as he was nearly asleep Victor started to move. The blond man let out a soft groan of displeasure, sleepily trying to convey that he did not want him going anywhere. Victor did not say a word, and, to Finnegan’s relief, did not move much. Rather, he just lay down. Finnegan, not wanting the closeness, the very brief comfort in the world of discomfort he was trapped in, to be gone, followed instantly, laying down beside Victor and pressing close to him, refusing to utter a word.

“I prefer this to sleeping on the ground,” Victor said quietly. He carefully wrapped an arm around Finnegan.

Finnegan let out a little, tired snort at that and lightly shoved at Victor, the comfort of being close to him helping give him enough energy to regather at least a bit of his ego. “Don’t get used to it,” he mumbled, but he snuggled closer to Victor’s side, and a hand moved to gently take hold of his shirt, clutching it as if trying to subtly cling to him.

Victor smiled just a bit, happy to see Finnegan acting a bit more like himself (which, come to think of it, was probably actually a very _bad_ thing, as “himself” for Finnegan tended to be an unbearably snobby prick). “I’ve grown accustomed to not getting used to things,” he said quietly. Finnegan would have rolled his eyes had he not currently been keeping them closed. Victor continued on with, “But if you have a change of heart, the least you can do for the man who saved your life is share the only bed.”

“Maybe,” Finnegan mumbled. Then, softer, he added, “...I do like this.” It was nicer than being alone, being curled up against Victor was _much_ nicer than trying to sleep by himself on the mattress from hell. He let out a soft breath. “Maybe… I can try to cooperate with you until I can get back home.” He had no idea when that would be. Right now, snuggled up against Victor, hurting and tired and uncomfortable but feeling oddly safe in his arms, home felt thousands of miles away and returning to it felt like nothing but a distant dream.

Victor chuckled. The arm around Finnegan gently moved up until it was on his head and Victor ran his fingers through Finnegan’s hair absentmindedly. The feeling of Victor’s fingers lazily running through his hair was incredibly calming to Finnegan, whose breathing began to slow and body relaxed once more. The silence returned, and the little room in the inn became quiet save for the soft breathing of the two men.

“We can discuss what exactly cooperation entails in the morning,” Victor said thoughtfully now, voice soft. He continued to play with Finnegan’s hair as he spoke. “I won’t ask for much, really. Just a bit less whining, maybe try to relax better next time I check your wounds, er… and a willingness to share the bed, that would-”

He went silent when he glanced down at Finnegan. He had fallen asleep.

Victor laughed softly and relaxed into the bed himself, pulling Finnegan a bit closer and trying to get comfortable. “In the morning,” he repeated, and he closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep.

-end

**Author's Note:**

> Lmao I've been talking about writing this fanfiction for like... literally weeks and I just finally now got around to finishing it. I'm worried I overhyped it and it sucks and the people who have been waiting to read it are gonna be disappointed haha. Personally, I'm... pretty happy with it, though? I mean it's ridiculously fluffy and pretty self-indulgent as far as what tropes take place here, but I love these two and they're my major ship from this movie (which I ADORE, it's my absolute favorite now!). I really wanted to write something for them and I just hope it's enjoyable at least!! If you like it I'd love if you let me know!!
> 
> (and for those wondering, YES I've read (and love) the script, and honestly I kinda prefer Finnegan's motive and overall character there more than I do in the final cut of the film, but I wanted to stick to "canon" - that is, what takes place in the film!)


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